


Suffer for You

by TheGirlInTheBlackVeil



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Depression, Despair, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Reincarnation, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 20:54:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9343724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGirlInTheBlackVeil/pseuds/TheGirlInTheBlackVeil
Summary: It's rather easy to die for someone you love but it's much more difficult to live for them.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rather dark fic, read the tags to avoid triggers. Also I'm not British so I probably fudged up the British slang.

They hurt, physically hurt, what normally is just a hollow, cold feeling located where his heart should be has turned into a full body ache. Concentrated around his heart it feels like it’s become so cold that it burns. He can barely breathe, his throat sore from supressing sobs, diaphragm hiccupping with the effort. His palms sting from his nails digging in, despite the blankets between them that he clutches to like a lifeline. Right now they are his lifeline. It’s difficult to kill yourself without getting out of bed when everything dangerous has been relocated to either the medicine cabinet or the kitchen. He just has to stay here until he gets back but the minutes are ticking by on the alarm clock at a horrifyingly slow pace and the voice in his head keeps telling him _he’s not coming back, you’ve scarred him away, no one will ever want to be with you, you’re so useless you’re a burden and an embarrassment, just get up and_ do _it already_. He’s fighting a losing battle he can’t keep it up for much longer but for now he will continue to fight to keep shouting at the other voice _he loves me!_ like a mantra even if he doesn’t quite believe it himself. He says that’s good, even if it feels unbearable and like a useless endeavor, that it’ll train his brain to become stronger, that he’ll be able to fight for longer, eventually will make the act of fighting so automatic that he’ll be able to identify and brush away the smallest of negative thoughts. It’s been years of this though and it still feels as impossible as the day he first heard it. _Maybe that’s because he lied, if he lied about that then he definitely lied about loving you, about staying with you._

_Shut up! He loves me. He’ll be back. He promised he’d stay with me. He loves me. He loves me, he loves me, he loves me—_

He tries not to get mad at himself but he can’t help it, his task is so simple, babies can do it, lie in bed, take calm, even breaths to prevent hyperventilation and panic, think of something happy to fight the dark thoughts. Yet he’s only managed one of three and is about to lose that one too because the minutes are ticking by too slowly and he’s remained in bed for hours but if he gets up to use the toilet he’ll grab the pills and overdose or he’ll break the razor and use the blades to make nice vertical lines down the soft fleshy insides of his wrists. Even if he avoids the temptation in the medicine cabinet there’s no guarantee he’ll be strong enough to walk past the balcony—with its forty-eight story drop calling to him, telling him the best way to fall, to fail, would be to fly first, _didn’t you always want to know what flying felt like?_ —back to bed.  And say he does manage to do it, to make it to the toilet and back, if he allows himself to get up this time he’ll allow himself to get up again, next time it might be to go to the kitchen because he’s hungry, the knives are there, poisonous cleaners of all kind just waiting to be ingested, smelling sweetly of citrus or fresh linen.

He’s trying, he really is, but he’s losing, drowning in his fears, his despair, his anxieties. And isn’t that stupid? Anxieties. He’s living the life of luxury, he’s only taking two university classes this term when the normal student takes five, he works six hours a week only because he feels like he should get out of the flat more often, that two classes is hardly enough to occupy his time and at least by working he’ll have something to show for his time.His boyfriend— _he’s more your father than your boyfriend, boyfriends have sex with each other, kiss each other on the lips_ —brings in a lot of money, runs all the errands, does all the housework, preps all the meals, there’s an outfit laid out for him hanging on the closet door because he knows that it takes him too long to get ready in the morning, that he’s self-conscious to the point where he thinks everything he wears looks like crap unless someone tells him otherwise and so it’s safer to let his boyfriend pick his clothes, gives him the confidence to go out in them— _boyfriends don’t lay out outfits every day, fathers do that for their toddlers_. If he goes to the kitchen it’s likely he’ll find a plate of breakfast in the fridge, maybe telling him how long to heat it in the microwave, a packed lunch too, maybe a note telling him he loves him or telling him to text what he wants for dinner. In the front hall his shoes and jacket will be laid out, maybe even a brolly depending on the forecast, his bag will be packed with everything he needs for the day, from homework assignments and notebooks to a bottle of water and medication and probably a note reminding him to grab his lunch. There’s a whiteboard/corkboard between the kitchen and the front door with their respective schedules on it, reminders for appointments, tests, assignment, and out of town conferences, shopping lists, mental and physical exercises. _Maybe not a father then but a live in nurse, he’s just waiting for you to die at this point_ , _to release him from the promises he never should have made._ The realization causes a chilling wave travels through his body numbing everything.

He’s staring at his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror before he even registers getting up. He doesn’t remember getting up, doesn’t remember turning on the light, doesn’t know how long he’s been staring at his reflection. _Ugly_ the voice emphasizes, _if you had to fend for yourself you’d be long dead, you’re too stupid to get a job, to make it through an interview without the recommendations and the help, you’d try to whore yourself out and no one would buy you. No one want to sleep with you for free why on earth would they pay for it?_ He realizes he still has the sheets clutched in his fists, as if he’s still holding himself down to the bed, as if he’s still safe, in a sense he is, he can’t open the cabinet, open the pill bottles, while still holding on to the blankets. It seems much too easy, there’s no fight, his fists just unclench, his eyes follow the slow fall of the blankets to where they pool on the tile of the floor. His knuckles ache with how hard he was squeezing them, he’s broken the skin on his palms and there are little bleeding crescent moons. _Useless_ the voice reprimands him as he struggles to get the bottles open, the child lock, the simple press and turn, too much for his shaking hands. _Useless_ it says again as it takes him what feels like hours to swallow them all, even water not helping his gag reflex, or maybe it’s a matter of the hiccupping sobs and the tears blurring his vision. He’s scared, god he’s scared. Everyone is going to be so mad at him, he doesn’t have a will or anything and even a plot of land to throw his body into will cost a lot. He has to do something, try to make them less disappointed.

He relieves himself, hopefully so he won’t soil himself when his heart stops but just in case he does he decides to lie in the tub, it’s dry. Maybe he should pick out an outfit for his funeral, would they even have a funeral? Who were _they_ even? The peers he rarely talked to at school? His coworkers? His boyfriend? Maybe his estranged family? It took him hours just to pick out clothes in the morning, he hardly had hours now, besides he’d probably soil them, it’d all be over soon. His sobs are silent now, little hiccupping breaths, he’s scared and he’s alone, he didn’t want to die alone, this was his greatest fear. He should have waited until he got home, conducted some elaborate plan where he could die with him there, maybe asleep next to him, maybe just timed it properly so he’d get home too late, have no choice but to hold him as he drew his last breath. But he’s not smart enough to do that. He’s _scared._ Has half the mind to try to lean over the toilet and stick his fingers down his throat, pretend this never happened. He manages to reach, with blurring vision and trembling fingers, for the blankets on the floor, manages to yank them into the tub with him. He tries to use them to chase off the chill and when that doesn’t work he sniffs at them like a bloodhound trying to figure out which side he would have slept under to find his scent so that he can inhale it and hold on tight to them and pretend he’s not alone. The scent is faint though, they smell mostly of him, but it’s there, he curl’s up the way he was taught, the way that is supposed to help, supposed to drive away some of the loneliness. He waits. He’s scared, blood pounding in his ears, feeling like he’s going to throw up simply from anxiety, gets that _everything at once_ feeling, too hot, too cold, too jittery, too tired, too sweaty, too dry.

With energy from who knows where he’s up and out of the tub, out of the loo and on the balcony. He’s going to die now either way, but the waiting is killing him, the scary part, taking the action that will make him dead, is over, all he would have to do is wait, but he can’t, it’s too scary, he’s alone. He’ll jump, one last thing he wanted to do while alive, he’ll find out what it feels like to fly, and then it will be over. A moment of joy and then peace. Hopefully peace. Probably a hell of a lot of pain first, but then after, maybe some type of heaven? He’d be happy with reincarnation honestly, a fresh start. But he was raised in a Catholic household, suicide’s a sin, and even though he doesn’t believe the niggling doubt lingers that maybe he’ll burn in hell. Maybe there’ll be nothing at all. He’s procrastinating, why can’t he do it? _You’ve already signed your death warrant_ he tells himself which gives him the courage to get up on the railing. Normally no one looks up this high but he shouldn’t procrastinate, just in case someone does and calls the cops and then that’d be even more hell to deal with. He still has the blankets in his hand, is about to put them down before deciding he wants to die with them, a message, an apology to his boyfriend _I tried, I’m sorry_. Boyfriend sounds so juvenile he wishes he could call him his lover, he does, sometimes, in his head, it sounds so much more romantic but technically a lover is someone you sleep with. He’s a virgin, he’s going to die a virgin. His sob almost unbalances him, makes him lean too far forward, sound being cut off by the sudden pressure of the wind, a forty-eight storey drop taking all of four seconds before he goes _splat!_ on the pavement below where he’ll twitch for a moment or two, neurons snap, sizzle, frying as they try to fire, try to tell him _pain!_ try to send impulses to his joints telling them to move away from the thing causing the pain, as if he had put his hand on a hot element, but it’ll be too late. The people below will dodge as they see his approaching shadow, blink stunned for a moment or two as their brains catch up with what they are seeing, there might be screaming, someone might try to call an ambulance but it’ll be too late.

He breathes in preparation, it’s cold, frigid even, breathes out just to confirm that it’s cold enough that he can see his breath fog up in front of him. He breathes in again, grips the blankets tighter bends his knees slightly, closes his eyes.

“Arthur?” It almost makes him slip despite being quite, shouldn’t have startled him, but it has because he’s been caught, he has to go now or he’ll be forced to keep living again. He can’t let himself be saved again, doesn’t deserve it, neither does his boyfriend, he shouldn’t have to put up with him, he’s so much work. He straightens up, tries not to scare him.

“ _Merlin_ ,” it sounds like everything it shouldn’t, it’s supposed to just be a name spoken by way of greeting but it belays his fear, somehow sounds like _please_ and _save me_ and _I’m scared_ and _don’t let me do this_ and _I’m glad you’re here, I couldn’t bear to die alone_. He hears the gentle clonking of Merlin’s boots as he steps out onto the balcony, that doesn’t sit right until he remembers that Merlin would have seen his knapsack in the front hall, would have realized right away that he hadn’t gone to class, would have come looking for him, didn’t take his boots off before following the chill to the open balcony door and here they are.

“Arthur,” Merlin says softly from somewhere almost behind him, not close enough to catch him, he can’t let Merlin get any closer, can’t let himself be pulled down or even worse accidently taking Merlin down with him, the fool probably would try to save him, being pulled down by his weight and momentum but unwilling to let go, “I’m home now,” as if that makes everything better, and it sort of does because he’s _Merlin_ and he’s _here_. Neither of them moves as the wind decides to howl past almost enough to shove Arthur back onto the safety of the balcony. He can’t stand here forever, he has a few bottles worth of pills in his system, he’ll die either way, maybe he should get down, allow Merlin to baby him, to scold and love him in equal measure as the pills do their work? “Arthur,” Merlin’s voice comes again, thankfully no closer, “Arthur,” Arthur can hear him swallow, “you’re scaring me.” _Shit_ he’s upset Merlin, the poor man, why’d he have to pick Arthur? Why couldn’t he have found someone who wasn’t broken, who didn’t need to be looked after like a baby or an escapee from the insane asylum? And now Merlin feels responsible, sweet Merlin, this was inevitable, he had kept him alive much longer than he should have been, even managed to make him happy at times. “Arthur!” It’s more demanding this time, the voice shakes slightly and it’s enough to get Arthur to turn his head, he regrets it, Merlin has silent tears streaming down his face, arms trembling with the strength it must take to hold them up, waiting to catch and hold him, a promise of love and safety, “please,” and that’s it Arthur’s fallen, stumbling, tripping over the blankets as Merlin moves to him, grabs him, holds him, presses kisses to his face as he sobs. It’s okay now, it’s okay because he’s going to die in Merlin’s arms, he’s no longer scared.

But suddenly he is again as Merlin drags him back over the threshold, through their bedroom to the loo and _oh, shouldn’t have left the light on and the empty pill bottles on the counter, Merlin’s smarter than that_ he hates this part. He’s shoved to his knees and fingers are shoved down his throat and his stomach voids itself into the toilet. Maybe it hadn’t been as long as he thought, the undigested pills clearly visible, nothing much to obscure them. The smell makes him feel faint, he’s gagging at the smell but Merlin leans him back over forces him to vomit again before flushing the evidence pushing him to lay down half on those goddamn blankets he still hasn’t let go of. Merlin shushes him, he wasn’t aware he was making those horrible sobbing noises he sometimes does until that moment, then Merlin hovers his hands over Arthur’s body, eyes closed, brow furrowing in concentration. There’s something special about Merlin, something a little bit magic, Arthur fanaticizes that Merlin’s checking for anything still left inside him, any of the lethal dose that’s been absorbed into his bloodstream, maybe he’s just delusional on top of everything else although the way Merlin speaks sometimes, not to mention this is the third time they’ve done this this year (which does beat the four times last year and the year before that, and the year before that one it was seven, before that he’d been too much of a coward, only self-harming) and he still hasn’t left, hasn’t given up, maybe they both are.

He’s gone limp like a ragdoll, he’s weak, defeated, once again too numb to really feel anything. There’s water running, a warm cloth wiped over his lower face. More water running, he thinks Merlin’s left but then he’s being stripped and lifted into the tub, Merlin gets in behind him. Merlin washes him, manages to clean out his mouth too, mummers something Arthur doesn’t really hear. It’s easy now, to breathe, unconsciously matching his breaths to Merlin’s. It’s easy now not to move, Merlin’s got him, Merlin’s much stronger than any self-made prison constructed of flimsy blankets. The numbness keeps the darker of thoughts away, and while this isn’t happy by far—he’s hungry, fatigued, aching, ashamed, and his mouth tastes like mint, chalky pills and vomit—but if he could stay like this forever he would.

Merlin’s sat him down at the kitchen table with tea and warm apple sauce (like most people Arthur didn’t like apple sauce, at least until he had tasted Merlin’s apple sauce) as he goes about cleaning up and preparing dinner. They do all of this in silence. Finally Arthur starts to wake up, regain feeling, whatever you want to call it, he gets tremors in his hands, the cold comes back, maybe because the balcony door had been left open for a long time, he grips his mug in attempt to unthaw his fingers. Gobbles down the apple sauce when his stomach starts demanding food again then downs the tea when his throat tells him it is dry and sore, Merlin’s thought of that though, of course he has, it has honey in it.

His action causes Merlin to ask, “What happened, Arthur?” and Arthur’s been dreading this. It seems stupid now as he tries to find the words to explain it to Merlin (there aren’t any that will make him understand), it’s not like it suddenly feels insignificant, it’s still life or death, but he already knows from past experience that Merlin will come up with a multitude of solutions where he could only find one (which was ending it all and in Merlin’s eyes that’s neither a solution or something that should ever be an option). He also knows though that Merlin’s waiting for an answer, has the patience of a saint and will wait for however long is necessary because he wants to fix Arthur’s problems.

“When-“ he has to lick his lips and swallow before he can get his voice to function properly, “when I woke up this morning I turned off my alarm but then I got a few email notifications. Do you remember that website I told you about? The one my creative writing professor introduced us to?” Merlin nods, of course he remembers, he’s the perfect boyfriend, he memorizes every little detail about Arthur. “I posted a piece on there on Monday and forgot about it. I tried that exercise that counsellor gave me; dissociating from my problems by giving them to my characters, turning it into an art, something beautiful, and then have the characters overcome them, because it’s supposed to help me find a way to do the same. But it wasn’t notifications from the site it was emails from work, people looking to have their shifts covered again.” He trails off looking into his empty mug.

“You were reminded though,” Merlin continues for him, already knows where this is going, “you told me that originally the site notified you about everything and you turned off the notifications for everything but if someone asked you a question about your work. So you went to the website and signed in wondering how many people had read it, how many people had recommended it or liked it.”

“Two,” Arthur whispers swallowing back his tears. “Only about ten percent who read something can be expected to take further action, so if only twenty people read it two likes would have been outstanding but over six hundred people read it and no recommendations, only two likes. People just don’t like it. I’m an English major. I’m supposed to be good at this! It wasn’t like I bullshited this, I spent hours on it, I felt _good_ about it. I’ve seen pieces that are practically unreadable, grammar so poor people can’t be bothered to capitalize their I’s, people who are just learning English trying to practice by writing short pieces and asking people to edit them, with more likes! I’ve changed my major four times already, I thought that I could write for a living but obviously I’ll never be able to publish anything because, once again, I’m incapable of doing well at anything. God! Merlin,” he sobs, “I thought this was it, I finally found something I liked, but I guess I should find something I hate that at least will pay me.”

“Hush now Arthur,” Merlin tells him as he wipes his nose with a tissue, pushing him to sit down on the couch, “how many times have I had to tell you to do whatever makes you happy. I don’t care if you want to sit at home and watch television all day, every day, for the rest of your life. You don’t need to make a living, I’ll look after you, always.”

“It doesn’t feel right,” he mumbles into Merlin’s shoulder, has to pull himself away and repeat himself when Merlin asks him what he said. “It doesn’t feel fair to you but I also feel like I’ll have no motivation to do anything if I don’t have a job. What’s the point of writing at all if not for other people to enjoy your stories? I might try at first to get a few published but then I’d give up and I’d feel like I was wasting my life away. I want to _do_ something with my life.”

“Then we’ll find you something to do, whether that’s to keep writing until you get something published or to find something else that you love and want to pursue, I don’t care Arthur, it’s not the end of the world, all right?” Merlin asks him but when he’s unable to meet his gave Merlin says, “It’s more than that, isn’t it?”

Arthur nods, unable to look up despite to warm hands stroking his face in encouragement, “They-they hate me,” he manages to grit out.

“Arthur,” Merlin chides wiping away fresh tears, “no, no one hates you! Those people haven’t even met you! So maybe they didn’t love that particular piece of work or maybe they just didn’t understand it but they aren’t judging you.”

“It was about me!” he yells jerking away from his boyfriend. “I mean, I didn’t use my name, I didn’t give any real identifying features but the story was set around my life! The main character had my problems, my feelings, it might as well have been an autobiography! I even gave them a happy ending because people love their fucking happy endings even though they’re so bloody unrealistic! The only thing they love more is bloody erotic literature which I won’t even attempt to write because I’m a virgin at twenty-five! But they didn’t like it, I got two pity likes. No one liked it, no one likes me…” he lets out a breath, tried to calm his heart that wants to beat out of his rib cage, “how can you expect me to live in this world knowing that no one likes me?”

“Stop it!” it’s not yelled, it’s whispered, and that’s how he knows Merlin’s truly angry, has only heard him use this voice a few times since the day he stepped into his life with the goal of saving him. “No one likes you, you say, what am I then? Am I a no one? Do you think me a liar? Am I some sort of torturer that gets pleasure out of forcing you to live a miserable life of my making? A psychopath who claims he’s trying to help you, that he loves you, when he’s only trying to make you suffer.”

Arthur reels, “No! No, I’m sorry! Merlin please, I love you.” And just like that Merlin deflates, rushes towards him and has him wrapped up in an embrace. “Please don’t leave me,” he begs.

“Never,” a hand through his hair, “never Arthur. You’re stuck with me until the day you die, maybe even after if you reincarnate.”

“I’m sorry,” comes unbidden again, “you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me… I just don’t want to live anymore.”

He feels Merlin swallow thickly against him, “Please Arthur,” he begs, “I’m sorry it’s taking too long but we’ll fix it, I swear, we’ll find the right medicine or the right exercises, maybe even your grand calling in this life, your reason for being here, anything that will make you happy, I’ll do my best to give it to you.”

For a moment he’s ready to take the offensive, he’s bitter, wants to point out that if Merlin was willing to give him anything he wouldn’t be a virgin, he’d also probably be dead already, preferably a painless death he got to experience from Merlin’s arms. He doesn’t want to upset him though, he also knows the truth so he speaks it, “I don’t know what I want, it feels like nothing will make me happy. I know what I _don’t_ want. I don’t want to suffer, I don’t want to lose you, I don’t want to die alone or unloved. I have passing whims, I’ll want a certain food when I’m hungry only to over anticipate it and become disappointed. I used to tell myself that if I was loved I’d be happy, I’d no longer feel this way, and for a while I thought it was true. Merlin I felt over the moon for months after you told me you loved me for the first time, anxious as hell because I thought I’d mess it up, but ecstatic. If being loved by you isn’t enough how can I hope that something like a good mark on a paper, a few likes on a story, a sunny day, will make me happy?”

Merlin’s crying, large, silent tears, Arthur regrets telling him this, once again he’s making it sound as if Merlin is useless, that his love means nothing when in actuality it means the world, he’d be dead at least eighteen times over if not for Merlin. “Merlin, I’m sorry, please don’t cry.”

“You prat,” Merlin spits out, “I’m allowed to cry, I’ve failed you again! I was created for you, Arthur. _Servant until the day I die_ and all that, I’m supposed to protect you. And you’re telling me I’m going to fail again, that this time I’ll lose you to yourself?”

“Merlin…” he breathes trying to comfort the other man while ready to fall apart at the seams himself, “Merlin, you know I don’t understand it when you talk like that.”

Merlin sucks a breath in, their eyes meet and suddenly Merlin’s irises are gold, it’s shocking in that it’s beautiful but for some reason it doesn’t seem to surprise him. “Then I’ll show you,” with that Merlin puts his hands to Arthur’s temples and he _sees_ , watches their lives through Merlin’s eyes, their lives from over a millennium ago, where magic and dragons and unicorns were as real as the Americas, where Arthur was king and Merlin his servant. He sees himself marry another, sees Merlin alone, sees himself die, and Merlin doesn’t show him much after that but Arthur knows, has always known in a sense, that Merlin waited, that he’s immortal and hasn’t aged. Finally it’s over, Merlin’s removed his fingertips and his eyes have shifted back to a sombre blue. “I waited for you,” in case it wasn’t obvious, “I’m sorry for expecting so much from you. I-I just thought, after all these years, I’d get to spend a few decades with you. I would have been happy to have been your slave but you’ve let me love you and I’m sorry Arthur but that makes me happy, it hurts when you aren’t happy but if I had to choose between you being miserable but in love with me for another seven decades or letting you go, letting you be at peace I’d be selfish and make you suffer.”

Arthur’s still processing what he saw, what Merlin’s said, what it all means. “Loving someone means you want them to be happy,” he says at last and it feels like a new revelation, perhaps because he finally has all the pieces and they’re coming together to make a picture. “I don’t think I can be happy Merlin, I don’t think I can get better, but if me being alive really means that much to you I’ll suffer for you.”

“It does, it really does, you being alive means the world to me. I’ll keep trying Arthur, even if I can’t make you happy I’ll do whatever it takes to make it so you don’t have to suffer for me. We’ll live together, yeah? Maybe you want to get away from this life, we can go somewhere no one knows us, we could buy an island and build a house, I could even set it up so we could have electricity and we’d never have to see another human again, could stay on our island forever, no internet, no television, not even a radio. We wouldn’t have to worry about jobs and the price of living, of keeping up with the world, of social engagements or political crises. Just you and me and the land. We could forge, fish, or farm, and if you didn’t feel like doing anything you wouldn’t have to.” It sounds nice, being able to escape from the world, truly escape from society, without having to die. To have their own private space where Arthur wouldn’t be able to compare himself to others or have to worry about what they thought, wouldn’t have to worry about Merlin meeting and falling in love with someone else.

He manages a small smile, “And that would make you happy?”

“Yes, it would make me very happy,” he cards his hands through his hair before hovering them over Arthur’s chest pushing him to lie down, “here, feel how happy you make me.” His eyes turn gold again as he settles them on Arthur’s chest and Arthur is hit with Merlin’s feelings, his emotions.

Out of curiosity he asks, “Can you show me what if felt like without me? What it would feel like if I killed myself?”

Merlin jerks back as if Arthur had physically slapped him, blinking owlishly. Finally he bites his lip and wrings his hands, “I don’t want to,” he admits, “it’s bad Arthur, really bad. I don’t want to add to your pain by showing you my own.”

“Please?” Arthur begs, “as a deterrent, so I know what the consequences of my actions will be. I don’t ever want to hurt you, if I know how much it’d hurt you I’ll be able to refrain.”

Merlin bites his lip again before giving a single terse nod, eyes going gold and hands coming into contact with Arthur’s chest. Arthur gasps as the pain hits him, it feels like a physical pain, so much worse than his own, he can’t breathe, can’t even think. It’s gone as quickly as it came but it felt like an eternity. Merlin’s already on top of him, muttering apologies and brushing away tears, calming him. “For you,” Arthur whispers pressing his nose into Merlin’s shoulder.

“What?”

“For you… I’ll live,” and Merlin gives him a dazzling smile, one that is impossible to look at and feel miserable.

“Shall I arrange for an island then?”

“No, I want to keep trying this life if it’s all the same to you,” Merlin nods, still beaming, getting up from the couch and heading back over to the stove.

“All right then, let’s get something to eat, it’ll make us feel better then we can plan for the rest of your life together.”

Arthur manages a hollow laugh, “That sounds wrong, rest of my life, but I guess you won’t die when I do.” That finally gets Merlin’s smile to fall as he shakes his head.

“We can pretend though,” Merlin’s only laid out glasses of water for them, doesn’t keep alcohol in the flat, “to the rest of our lives together,” he toasts.

“To the rest of our lives,” Arthur repeats clinking his glass to Merlin’s and Merlin smiles.

Out of all the times Arthur had told himself he’s going to turn his life around he’s finally inclined to believe it. He finally has a purpose; he’s going to live to make Merlin smile, going to get him to smile more and more every day. Maybe one day it won’t just be an automatic response. Maybe that way Merlin will remember what happiness feels like, won’t mistake grief for it simply because grief doesn’t hurt as much as despair.

**Author's Note:**

> This took me a lot longer than I was expecting mainly because I originally thought 500 words would be enough, ended up writing 10 000, cut it down to 5 000, there goes my weekend. As far as I'm concerned this is done so I can go back to playing catch up with school work (I'm only two weeks in and about two months behind); however, I do have about 5 000 words of subplot/backstory, no promises that they'll become anything but they are written so I might do something with them in the future when I'm not worrying about my honour's thesis and grad school applications.


End file.
